


Never meant to be

by SharpestRose



Series: Happy Families [1]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-29
Updated: 2011-06-29
Packaged: 2017-10-20 20:23:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestRose/pseuds/SharpestRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Happy families. Gotham style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never meant to be

**One**

  
The first time Sheila feels like a mother is the moment when she walks in her front door, after a double shift at the clinic, and sees her child pulling on another woman's hair.

Jason's one year and a handful of weeks old, so Sheila's long given up on blaming her dislike of the kid on adjustment or post-natal depression. Some people aren't meant to be mothers, and it's just a shame that Willis was so keen on the idea of a son that she let herself be talked into carrying to term.

And there he is, her boy, all smiles and big eyes and inquisitive fingers, being bounced in Catherine Johnson's arms and making little burbling noises as he grabs to tug at her dark curls.

Until now, the women have managed to avoid meeting face-to-face, as if pretending the other did not exist would somehow make it true.

Sheila walks over, letting the door fall closed in a slam behind her, and grabs Jason from Catherine's arms. He begins to squall and cry immediately, wriggling in her grasp.

"Where's Willis?" Sheila asks coldly, over her son's screams.

"Out for cigarettes." Catherine's voice is soft and fearful, like she's scared Sheila's going to throw a punch. Sheila's never even heard her speak before; until now, the closest thing to conversation between them have been the small surprised gasps Catherine gives when she phones and Sheila's the one to answer. A gasp, and then the click of disconnection.

Just like she was never meant to be a mother, Sheila knows she was born to something better than to be the wronged woman in a cliched extramarital affair.

"Mommy," Jason wails, and Sheila holds him tighter. Catherine might have her kitten-claws in Willis, but Sheila will die before she'll let someone like that take her son as well. She may not love him, but he's hers.

She turns, grabs her bag from where she tossed it onto an armchair, and opens the door onto the hallway again. Jason, confused enough by the proceedings that he's stopped crying for the moment, jams his thumb into his mouth and bites. He never wants a pacifier, but seems content enough to gnaw at himself when he needs distraction.

"We're buying land in Virginia," Catherine says, pleadingly, as Sheila moves to close the door behind her. "My father had some money. I'll adopt Jason. You can go to England. Willis said you've always wanted to go. You could study again."

Sheila stops, her knuckles white on the doorknob. No baby, no cheating lover. England. She's wanted it ever since she was a child.

She'll never be a doctor if she stays in Gotham, and the loss of that dream still smarts even though she feels useful and content working reception at the Park Row clinic.

It seemed like things would be okay, when she found the clinic. Until the phone calls, and the new and guilty gleam to Willis' eyes. And Jason, growing out of his clothes faster than they could afford them. Always hungry. Always needing something Sheila doesn't know how to provide him with.

"You'll be back," Sheila says to Catherine coolly, reshouldering her bag and hefting Jason onto her hip. "This city doesn't let you leave. Not for long."

Then she turns, and takes her son with her into the night.

-

Elena is one of those earnest, perky teenagers who doesn't mind babysitting for a pittance, because she "just _loves_ little babies", and Sheila mutters a prayer to whoever's up beyond the low-hanging Gotham clouds for someone like that coming into her life.

And for Leslie, too. The pay at the clinic's not enough to keep a woman and her child living comfortably, so Leslie finds Sheila a place in the mail and records department at Gotham General Hospital. In return, Sheila volunteers her time at the clinic free of charge whenever she can.

"You don't have to do this, Sheila. It's all right," Leslie tells her time and time again, in a flat tired voice, scrubs flecked with blood and deep crow's feet spidering out from her eyes. "You've got a baby at home. Spend your time with him."

"I'd rather be here," Sheila answers. Leslie doesn't have anything to say to that.

One day, Elena's knocked out with a bad case of the flu, and Sheila calls everyone she can think of short of Catherine and Willis before admitting defeat and taking Jason in to work with her.

She's avoided doing this for as long as she can, even though the hospital's staff childminding service seems lovely. Work's where she goes to forget about the screaming, smelly, sticky creature who looks up at her from his crib like she's the most wonderful thing he's ever seen. Work's where she can pretend she's free.

When her shift's done, she goes to collect Jason. A headache's building behind her eyes and she can tell that she'll wind up with Elena's flu before the end of the week. Great. Just what she needs.

A small, slim woman in a lab coat and a neat skirt and blouse ensemble is playing pat-a-cake with Jason on the brightly printed carpet. Her blonde hair's perfectly styled and her smile is bright and friendly.

"You're the mommy, huh?"

Sheila nods.

"He's just the cutest little thing I've ever seen," the woman goes on, squeezing Jason's hands in delight. Sheila scowls. Jason hates it when people do things like that; he likes having his arms free to grab and reach.

"I suppose so," Sheila answers noncommittally. "Have we met?"

"Oh, no, I don't think we have. Harley Quinzel. I work upstairs in psych."

"Do you have any children?" Sheila asks, bending to pick Jason up. Harley makes a small movement, almost like she's going to stop Sheila from taking him.

The focus in her gaze makes Sheila think of the addicts who wind up in the clinic. Something obsessive and uncontrolled hiding behind the smile.

"Not yet. I can't imagine that there's ever going to be a baby as wonderful as your little Jay," Harley says with a laugh. "He's lovely."

Jason bites on his thumb and pulls on Sheila's hair.

"I'd better get him home. Nice to meet you," Sheila says after a beat.

"Bring him back soon, huh?"

Sheila just nods, suddenly anxious to get away. The elevator arrives quickly, and she hits the button for the parking lot level with relief. Maybe Leslie can help her find somewhere to send Jason on the future days when Elena can't help out.

Jason looks up at her, his eyes quizzical. There's a pale lipstick print on his forehead. Sheila rubs it away with the hem of her sleeve.

"She gave me the creeps," she says, as if she owes him an explanation. "Women like her love too much. It makes them dangerous."

Then she snorts. "I guess halfway between her and me would be a perfect mom for you, huh?"

Jason just rests his head against her breast, and falls asleep.

-

  
 **Two**

The store was packed, just like it always is on Saturday afternoons, and Sheila's feet are aching from standing in cheap shoes by the time she gets home with the week's groceries.

The door to the apartment is unlocked and slightly ajar, and her stomach does a flip of fear at the sight. They live in a pretty good neighborhood, now, but there are still break-ins from time to time.

Jason's been taught to be careful about opening the door, but that kid never listens to what anyone says, especially when it's Sheila doing the saying.

He's sitting at the kitchen table, drinking soda from a can with a straw. Sheila never lets him have Zesti - the last thing he needs is sugar and caffeine in his system - and he's slurping away happily. Listening with wide eyes to the man sitting in the other beat-up wooden chair.

"Your Dad was a good guy. He took a beating for me one time, and I owe him for that. I don't forget my debts, even when a fella gets himself shot by coppers in a heist. You ever need anything, you come see me, y'hear?"

God, his _face_...

"Get out of my house," Sheila tells Harvey Dent coldly. "Now."

He just smirks at her, standing slowly and clapping two hands on Jason's shoulders. "See you around."

Jason grins up at him. "Thanks for the sodas."

As soon as he's out of the door, Sheila slams it and puts the chain on. Then she storms back into the kitchen. Jason slurps the last of his drink through his straw.

"You didn't tell me my Dad was dead," he says before Sheila can start yelling.

The reports of the shooting were all over the back pages of the paper a week earlier. Sheila had sworn a little, and remembered Willis' hands and smile, and then made herself forget. She grits her teeth. "Because I didn't want you to end up in the same shit that got him killed. Why the hell would you let a creep like that into the house, you little idiot?"

"Guess I was born bad," he sneers back. He's not tall, for a ten-year-old, but Sheila can tell already that he'll have the same bruiser's build as Willis when he's grown up. "Maybe I should take him up on it, y'know?"

"Don't give me that." She smacks him hard on the head. "You stay away from those mobs and gangs, you hear me? I'll hit you so hard Leslie'll be picking your teeth out of your cheek for hours, if you mess with that."

"Why the hell do you care? You'd be happy if I croaked!" He glares at her with eyes which look more like her father's every day.

"Since your chief joy in life seems to be making me miserable, I'd've thought you'd do anything to stay alive!" she snaps back. "Go to your room, Jason."

"Fuck you! I didn't fucking do anything! You're the bitch who didn't tell me my father was dead!"

"He was no good to you alive! I'm the one who buys your clothes, who paid for the food in those bags there! You give me a little goddamn respect!"

"Whatever." He heads for the front door.

"You get back here!"

"Make me, _Mommy_ ," he says, with a slam for punctuation.

She puts the food away, and has a cigarette, and wonders idly if Jason's out causing trouble bad enough to land him a stint in juvenile hall. She could do with the holiday.

At three in the morning the sound of a knock on the door wakes her, and she eases herself back up from where she finds herself slumped over the table. She hates the way gin makes her feel after the fact; that's why it's the bottle she picks off the shelf at the liquor store. If she liked it, she'd let herself have too much, too often.

Jason's standing there, collar curled in the gauntleted hand of a teenage boy in a cape and a mask.

"I think this belongs to you," the teenage boy says with a smirk that's more friendly than not.

"What's he done now?" Sheila asks with a sigh. First Two-Face and now this.

"He was shoplifting a microwave pizza roll from a seven-eleven," the kid in the cape says. Jason struggles to get his shirt out of the boy's grip, scowling at Sheila like she's the scum of the world. "He has to go back and do janitor work for them for a week, or else they press charges."

"I was framed!" Jason protests, wriggling free. "They're all against me."

"Isn't it past your bedtime, Jason?" the kid asks. It's a taunt, but Sheila can see lines of real worry on his brow.

"Isn't it past yours?" Jason shoots back, pushing past Sheila and walking into the house, muttering as he goes. "Won't even let a guy mind his own business. Stupid nosy assholes."

Stifling a yawn, Sheila nods at the boy. "Thanks for bringing him home. Robin, right?"

"Yeah."

"Thanks."

He nods and turns to go. It's strange to see him walking down the hallway of their apartment level. It makes him real in ways a figure like that isn't supposed to be.

Jason's sitting on the threadbare couch in front of the television, arms crossed and scowl firmly in place.

Sheila feels very, very tired. "We don't even own a microwave. What were you planning to do, just glare at your dinner until it burst into flames?"

"You shoulda told me my Dad was dead." He looks up at her now, eyes bright with pain behind their habitual hardness.

"Yeah, you're probably right. I'm sorry."

"Letting me find out from that freak like that..."

Sheila feels like reminding him which one of them it was who let the freak into the house, but instead settles for sighing. "Okay, you get the points for this round. Want some waffles? Early Sunday breakfast."

"Can I have coffee?"

"No."

"I'm practically an orphan!"

She's tired, and a little tipsy, and a little hungover, and all she can do is smile. "Forget it, kiddo."

"You're the worst mom ever."

"That makes us a matched set, then."

-

 **Three**

She's not quite sure what exactly it is that makes her start noticing the little things about Jason, but one day Sheila looks at him and realizes that she's got no clue who this person her son's turned into is.

He goes to school and gets okay grades and says he wants to do paramedical training when he's graduated. He doesn't drink, and usually remembers to pay her back for the smokes he swipes out of her bag. On weekends, he hangs out at the clinic with Leslie, but never offers more than a shrug and a "fine" when Sheila asks how things are there.

She doesn't have time to do volunteer work anymore. She's working all the hours she can at the hospital, and saving up her money. Some day, when Jason's got a place of his own, she's going to see England.

He gets into fights, but never bad enough to earn more than a letter home and a detention or two.

Sometimes Sheila looks at him and wonders how the hell he managed to turn out so good. Sometimes she looks at him and wonders what's going on in that head of his.

So she's not surprised, exactly, when she walks into the kitchen to get a drink from the tap late one night and is greeted by the sight of her eighteen-year-old son making out with a kid in a black cape and green tights. It seems just as likely as any of the other unexpected things Jason does, somehow.

There's a bottle of antiseptic, and some bandages, and stitching equipment, and three cereal bowls on the countertop. Two of the bowls have the remnants of cocoa puffs and milk in them, and the third has a splatter of blood and two bullets, lying like a surreal still life against the white of the china.

Sheila tries to think of something to say. After a few seconds, she gives up and just clears her throat.

Jason breaks away from Robin's mouth, looks over at her, and falls back against the fridge with a groan of annoyance. "Mom, your timing sucks."

"I guess this means I don't have to worry about some poor girl knocking on the door and telling me you got her in the family way, at least," she says, folding her arms.

This Robin's mouth seems as prone to frowning as the other's was smiling, and it's almost funny to see such a serious expression on the face of a short kid with spiky hair and a mask. "Ms Haywood, I -"

"Go home, kid. Or wherever it is that your sort lives." She waves him away. "I'd like to have a little chat with my son."

Jason scrubs a hand through his hair and sighs. He's wearing a worn Gotham Knights t-shirt and boxers. A couple of bruises from a recent brawl at school trace a broken line down his calves. "It's cool. You get home. Lemme know if the stitches pull, 'kay?"

Robin nods, once, and climbs out through the narrow kitchen window. Sheila can here a whir and a distant thunk, and then the boy vanishes into the dark outside.

"It's most certainly _not_ cool. How long has this been going on?"

"What, you mean me and Robin?"

"No, I mean sneaking around behind my back and playing field surgeon to vigilantes, you little shit." She pushes past him, switching the kettle on and reaching for the instant coffee. "You didn't use up all the milk on your midnight feast for two, I hope."

"There's another carton on the door. Look, it's not... I mean, it's just... you've known for years that Leslie helps them out. Why're you getting at me for doing the same thing?"

"Because Leslie isn't my responsibility, and she doesn't do it in my goddamned kitchen. You think the game they're playing is any different to the mess that got your father killed?"

"We're not 'playing' anything, Mom." Jason gets down two mugs, and puts sugar in one. He's going to rot his teeth out, one of these days.

"How long?"

Jason sighs again, shoulders dropping tiredly. He's broad and tanned, not quite as tall as Sheila expected him to become. "Remember when the Police Commissioner's daughter got shot?"

Sheila nods. She knew the Joker, once, in a life so far in the past it feels like it's something she read about. And, after that poor girl got hurt just so the Joker could piss off her father, Sheila started to have nightmares about what could happen if the Joker ever decided to look her up. She'd wake up in a cold sweat, and have to go check that Jason was okay before she could sleep again.

"Yes," she says, pouring the hot water over the coffee and sugar in the mugs. "I remember."

"A little while after that."

"Jesus." Sheila rubs at her eyes, and follows when Jason carries the cups to the table. "You know, in all the things I thought I should be worried about, it never crossed my mind that you might've been hanging out with Batman and Robin."

"Actually, Robin didn't show up until I'd been helping Leslie for a few months."

"I'm afraid of what you'll say if I dare ask how old that kid is, Jason."

"He's just little for his age." Jason smiles as he takes a sip of his coffee. "Thanks for not tearing strips off me for this."

"Don't think I'm not mad as hell," Sheila says coldly, wondering if it's worth the effort of going into the bedroom to get her cigarettes. "But it's not like that's ever stopped you doing anything before. Just don't get yourself in trouble, all right? I can still smack you hard enough to make it hurt."

"I'll do my best," Jason promises.

-

She goes to work, and does the grocery shopping, and tries to read the newspaper without feeling sick at every mention of Gotham's urban-legend night population.

It was bad enough sitting at home when Willis was out on the job, back when Sheila was young and stupid and thought she didn't care about life and death. Now, the world looms outside, terrifying and dangerous.

She lingers at the hospital after her shift, watching every patient brought into the emergency fear and wondering if they're someone Jason knows.

The cafeteria is half-full in the small hours of the night, same as any other time. The lights draw color out of people's faces and make them into pale, shell-shocked zombies. Eating bad food with mechanical bites and swallows as they wait for news, or for their rotation to begin, or for something to happen.

Sheila sits down at a corner table and rests her head on her hands. It's been two weeks since she found out, and it still hasn't sunk all the way in.

"You look like I feel," a voice says. It's one of the physical therapists, a woman Sheila knows well enough to smile hello to in the halls but nothing more than that.

"You must feel pretty rotten, then," Sheila answers. "Dana, right?"

"Yeah. Mind if I sit?" She's holding a tray with a bottle of orange juice and a slightly desiccated-looking apple on it.

"Not at all. You know what they say about misery and company."

"Mm." Dana sits down, and starts cutting her apple with a plastic fork. "I didn't feel like eating alone."

"I could do with a distraction from my head, too," Sheila agrees. "You got any kids?"

Dana nods, swallowing a thin wedge of fruit. "A stepson. He's sixteen."

"Ever felt like committing a little infanticide?"

"If you'd asked me a week ago, I'd've said no." Dana shakes her head. "But you wouldn't believe me if I told you the stuff my husband found in his room three nights ago. Now I can't decide if I want to cling to him, or kick him from here to Metropolis and back for being so reckless with his life."

Drugs. Sheila has a moment of thankfulness that she's never had to worry about Jason getting mixed up in that shit, at least. "That's terrible. I'm sorry."

"He says he's done with it now, but how do you trust someone when you know how much they've lied to you?" Dana asks, her food forgotten, her eyes imploring Sheila to say something sense-making.

Sheila shrugs. "I don't know. I think I trust my boy, and he's kept secrets since he was old enough to talk. Didn't even tell me he was a... you know." She lets her hand fall limp at the wrist.

Personal trauma wars with interest in gossip on Dana's face for a moment. Gossip wins. "Really? How did you find out?"

"Walked in."

Dana covers a gasp with her hand. "Wow. That's... hardcore."

Sheila snorts. "Luckily for my sanity, they were only at softcore when I interrupted."

When Dana laughs, it sounds like she's only just remembered how.

-

On Friday night, Sheila drinks too much gin with not enough tonic and feels lonely and bored. She wonders if Matches is in town; he's got no fixed phone number and only bothers calling her when he's lonely and bored himself.

It's not that she hates her life, just that England can't come fast enough.

She's digging through the milk carton holding her old records, looking for Marianne Faithfull's _Broken English_ , when Jason lets himself in the front door with a guest in tow.

It's a boy who looks about fourteen but who Jason will most likely claim is just small for his age, slightly built and dark-haired.

"Mom, this is Tim," Jason says. "We're gonna hang out and watch some TV on the set in my room, okay?"

"Are you -?" Sheila asks, letting the question hang. She didn't get a good look at Robin, but it's not out of the realm of possibility that this kid could get his hair looking like a stealth pineapple if he tried.

He gives her an oddly bleak smile. "I'm nobody, ma'am."

"We met at first aid class," explains Jason.

So her son's a serial cradle snatcher, as well as a fag. She sure did raise him right.

Not wanting to risk overhearing the two of them, Sheila spends the evening wandering the neighborhood. Winter's coming in, sharp and hard this year.

"She realized she'd never drive through Paris, in a sports car, with the warm wind in her hair..." she hums to herself, thinking of how sad that song had sounded when she was Jason's age. Now it just sounds honest.

-

Another week goes by, and she's woken up at two a.m one night by Jason saying "Will you keep the volume down? My mom's asleep."

"Sorry," a young, female voice whispers in reply. Sheila strains to catch the words through the thin walls. "We've gotta do something."

"Yeah, but what?"

"Well, I was thinking... I bet if you rocked up to the Cave, he'd let you in. Take you on."

"Robin's forced to quit, and your brilliant fix-it plan is to stick me in a cape. That's some great logic work there, Steph. You should pat yourself on the back for that one."

"No need to be an asshole about it. I bet you don't have any better ideas."

"Since you're so set on the idea that Batman needs a sidekick, why not apply for the position yourself?"

A high laugh, the sound of someone nearing desperation. "Okay, and now back to _reality_... what're we going to do? We can't let this happen. What's Gotham gonna do without Robin? What's _Tim_ gonna do without Robin?"

There's a pause, which goes on for so long that Sheila's starting to think they must've left via Jason's window, before he speaks again. "Right. So. Batman's going through one of his phases of pretending you don't exist, and he just goes grim and broody whenever I say anything about Tim. We can't do much on our own, so who else is there?"

"The Titans," the girl's voice answers. "Superboy and Robin are like this."

Sheila assumes there's a gesture, probably of crossed fingers or clasped hands, which accompanies the words.

"Tim says Superboy tracked him down already," says Jason. "They had a fight about this whole thing. About Tim having to quit."

The girl snorts. "Of course they did. What about Nightwing?"

"He's doing that 'this is sad but inevitable' mopey thing."

A growl of frustration. "This sucks."

"I know."

"Wanna come be my backup on a patrol?" It's not flirtation in her voice, but something a little like it.

"I think I promised my mom I wouldn't do stuff like that unless I had to..."

"That doesn't sound like a 'no', Jase. Last one to the library roof has to buy breakfast!"

There's a scuffling sound and then silence.

Sheila tries to go back to sleep.

She attempts to convince herself that the quiet that's settled over the apartment is the sound of her son sleeping safely in his bed.

She fails on both counts.

The sun is rising as she lights her third cigarette, tapping the ash on the sill of her kitchen window so that it drifts out onto the lazy breeze and blends into the smog.

England seems impossible, abstract. Like going to the moon, or back in time. A place read about in stories but never visited.

Jason thinks he's so grown up and smart and tough. Sheila knows that, because she felt just the same when she was his age, and look where cockiness landed her.

If she leaves him now, there might be nothing for her to come back to.

She stubs the butt of her cigarette out and lights another, and waits for her son to get home.


End file.
